The Liger Plague (Book 1) (26 page)

“Come on, you guys,” Fez called, waving his arm.

Tag looked back and saw the parade of poxers staggering out into the clearing. Fez started to climb the six-foot fence but fell back down upon hearing the sound of a man’s voice moving toward them. The burly owner of the house started to walk down the path, rifle in hand. Five-foot swells pounded against the rocks from the eastern side, shooting spray up in the air. The bear of a man stopped short of the gate, dropped to one knee, and pointed his shotgun at the three of them.

“Get the hell off my property, you little brat, or I’ll shoot!”

“We’re gonna die if we stay out here!” Fez said, glancing back at the army of poxers emerging out of the darkness. “I’m an islander just like you. Live on the other side of Broad Cove.”

“I know where you and your family live. Seen you little hellions tearing it up on your bikes out here after I ordered you off my property.”

“Please don’t let us die out here, Mr. Cooper,” Tag said, arms held high in surrender.

“Even if I did let you three in, what’s to say you don’t got that disease going around?”

“Because if we had it, we’d have already gotten sick by now,” Tag said, turning to the approaching mob.

“You owe me, old man. It was my dad who towed you back three years ago when the
Norma Ray
started taking in water two miles out.”

“Which is the reason I never shot you little sons-of-bitches,” the man said, pointing his rifle at the three of them. “Besides, the
Norma Ray
’s gone now. Them Coasties shot her up good yesterday and sunk her in the bay. I got no way of making a living now.”

“Forget the goddamn lobstering, man. Just let us in before they tear us to pieces. Please, we’re begging you. When they leave your property, we’ll be gone,” Tag said.

“Alright, I’ll let you in, as long as you get the hell out of here as soon as possible.”

“We promise,” Fez said.

The motor of the Coast Guard boat cruised near the jetty. Tag could hear someone onboard talking through a loudspeaker. He turned back and saw the mob of poxers approaching. The old lobsterman knelt down to open the padlock. The Coast Guard’s floodlight merged with the sweeping beam of the harbor lighthouse and briefly converged on the poxers. The gate opened, and Tag, Fez and Versa rushed inside to safety. The old man slammed the gate behind him and hooked the latch. He clicked it shut just as the first poxer wrapped his blistered fingers around one of the chain links.

Tag turned around and saw the poxers reflected in the beam of light. The sound of gunfire rang out, and the infected convulsed and twitched as their bodies were riddled with bullets. The poxer gripping the fence peered through the links, his crazed eyes begging for whatever his addled brain was in need of. A purplish-reddish spittle oozed from the corners of his cracked lips. Every inch of his face was covered in hard, volcanic pustules waiting to erupt with viral ashes. His face looked as if it might explode on touch. Tag felt sorry for the guy, and at the same time, he despised him.

“Please help me, man. I don’t know what the hell’s happening to me. My mind’s all screwed up,” the man whispered.

“Why are you chasing us?”

“The smell is driving me crazy. And I’m hungry like I’ve never been hungry in my life.” He licked his scabbed lips and rolled his eyes back in his head, revealing bone-white orbs. “Help me find my family?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

“Asshole! Let me the fuck in!” the man shouted furiously. He shook the chain-link fence so hard that Tag thought he might actually pull it down.

Tag stood and walked backwards, keeping his eyes glued to the four poxers now shaking the fence alongside the angry man. The man’s mood had shifted so violently that it stunned him.

“Shit! Get down!” the old lobsterman said, dropping to his knees. “Them Coasties don’t even know I’m here, and if I fire this rifle, it’ll alert them to our whereabouts. They’re shooting everything that moves, so follow me and stay the hell down.”

They crawled single file toward the house. Observing the illuminated corpses sprawled out over the beach, he prayed that Monica and Taylor were not among them. The voice over the loudspeaker asked if there were any survivors, and to come forward with arms up. Tag laughed. After this brutal massacre, did the Coast Guard really think anyone would step forward?

They made their way to the front door. Lobster traps and scratched buoys sat piled along the front yard. The lobsterman rose to his knees, opened the front door, and crawled inside the dark house. Once they passed over the threshold, a beam of light from the nearby Coast Guard vessel shone on the wall just above their heads. They stayed low and perfectly still. A few minutes passed. Convinced that they’d left no survivors behind, the engine revved, and the boat headed out into the harbor. The hefty lobsterman got up and moved over to the window to peek through the filthy drapes. Assured that the cove behind his house was now clear, he turned to the others and held up his rifle.

“Let’s get things straight. I don’t give a rat’s ass about any of you. So go against me at your own peril. And if you don’t like my rules, then there’s the door.”

Chapter 18

Cooper, the old lobsterman, closed the drape, and the dark once again filled the small, cluttered room. Tag stared into the blackness, having no idea if the man still had the rifle pointed at him or was staring out the window. He was exhausted, hungry and bewildered by the bizarre behavior exhibited by the infected. He inhaled and nearly gagged from the stench. The house smelled of mold and rotting shellfish, and he had no doubt that the old fisherman lived by himself and had not cleaned the place in years.

“Siddown,” the man ordered in a booming voice.

Tag searched the shadows for a place to sit. A faint light splashed out over the room, providing enough illumination to see a tattered futon with scratched wooden slats for arms. He sat down just as the screen of the small black-and-white television came into focus. Static filled the screen until Cooper fiddled with the rabbit ears on top. The squiggly lines straightened, and the picture cleared up, but no sound played.

“How are you getting power?” Tag asked.

“Got a propane tank behind the garage. Keep pretty self-sufficient out here,” the lobsterman said with obvious pride, although disguised by his New England reticence. “I don’t know how you people kept from getting sick out there and escaped all those lunatics, but you sure are lucky.”

“How have you managed to hold out yourself?” Tag asked.

“This is the most secluded part of the island. I rarely go into town this time a year because of all the damn tourists and summer people. When the outbreak occurred, I just locked all my doors and stayed put.”

Versa had fallen asleep. Fez sat next to Tag, fully awake, his eyes glued to the television. The chubby young leader of North Korea was shown conferring with his top advisors. The picture segued to the United Nations, where the world’s leaders were having an emergency meeting to discuss the situation. After a few seconds passed, he saw a map of Cooke’s Island followed by some blurry video of what looked to be a violent street riot. It took only a few seconds to realize that the riot taking place on TV had occurred on Cooke’s Island and had been captured by one of the solar webcams situated high above the town square.

“The crisis on Cooke’s Island has already made the national news,” Tag remarked.

“Not only made the national news but is causing international turmoil,” Cooper said. “Them North Korean whack jobs are claiming that the U.S. is experimenting on its own citizens so that they can turn this virus into a weapon, and eventually a weapon that’ll be used against them. The Russians are saying that it was stolen from one of their secret labs in the Gulag. The entire lot of them commies are meeting at the U.N. to decide what action to take. Right now most of them are demanding that the U.S. government turn this island into a parking lot.”

“A parking lot? What’s he talking about?” Fez asked.

“What do you think it means? They want to blow this place to smithereens,” Cooper said.

“Holy crap!” Fez exclaimed.

“Holy crap is right,” Cooper said, pointing an abnormally thick finger at the kid. “Think you’re so tough now, trampling over other people’s property? Now you’ll get to watch them come here and destroy this entire island. How ya like them apples?”

Fez shook his head, a look of concern on his face.

“Don’t scare the kid,” Tag said. “His family’s missing, and he’s been through a lot.”

“Scare him! Ha! Not even a rifle pointed at him and his buddies scared them away,” Cooper said, laughing. “They’re talking about sending troops over and killing every single last one of us in order to keep this bug from spreading to the mainland. How’s that for scaring you, kid?”

“They can’t go around killing everyone on this island,” Fez said.

“Like hell they couldn’t. The entire world’s going into panic mode after seeing the video from those stupid cameras posted everywhere on the island. I warned all them hoity-toities that they’d regret putting cameras up there just to study some stupid bird. Now instead of letting this virus run its course, they’re going to nip it in the bud before it has the chance to spread.”

Cooper turned up the volume, and the news anchor’s voice filled the room. Tag couldn’t understand how the feds had allowed this information to go public, but considering all the cell phones and webcams these days, it was practically impossible to keep such information from not getting out, he supposed. Video footage replayed scenes of the infected roaming the streets of downtown Cooke’s Island and attacking themselves and others. The violence must have shocked TV viewers, and he could easily understand how people might be convinced that a scorch-the-earth policy was the only way to prevent the liger virus from spreading.

More videos appeared showing different parts of the island. Shadowy poxers stumbled along the beach at night. Another camera caught them wandering around some of the more modest neighborhoods, crossing lawns and trampling through flowerbeds and shrubs like the living dead. The majority wore no clothes, having ripped them off their raw and exposed bodies. The station didn’t even bother to conceal their genitals; the blisters over their bodies had made them almost impossible to distinguish.

The screen changed, and all of a sudden Tag saw his face on TV. He looked over at Cooper and saw the lobsterman’s jaw drop. The old man stood and pointed the rifle down at him as the newscaster laid responsibility for the outbreak squarely on his shoulders.

“You got some explaining to do, mister,” Cooper said over the barrel of the rifle.

“He didn’t do nothing,” Fez argued, jumping up in front of the barrel.

“How do you know he didn’t do it? You the FBI?”

“I just know Tag’s innocent. He’s a good guy and would never hurt anybody.”

“I hate all you goddamn mainlanders. None of this would have ever happened if you’d all just stayed off this island,” he said, keeping the barrel aimed at Tag. “Why should I believe either of you?”

“Someone’s setting me up. I can assure you that I had nothing to do with releasing a virus on Cooke’s Island.”

“Tag, they’re talking about you on TV,” Fez said.

A photograph of the Institute appeared onscreen, followed by one of a Cayman Island bank. The newscaster reported that significant sums of cash from a Swiss bank had been wired into an account with his name on it. Tag watched on in disbelief. He’d never opened any foreign accounts in his life and had little money in any bank account to deposit. His military pension and two homes were his only significant assets. Even if he did manage to make it off this island, he’d be arrested immediately and tried as a domestic terrorist. Probably made a scapegoat to satisfy the public’s demand for justice. Somehow he’d have to uncover the truth and prove his innocence to the authorities, if that was even possible. Even then they might use him as a convenient scapegoat so as to appease the world.

“What do you make of that news, Colonel? Money wired into your secret bank account. That’s some damning evidence,” Cooper said.

Tag pulled back Fez into his seat and stood.

“Are you that dense? Do you really think if I had that type of money I’d be stupid enough to release a virus on this godforsaken island and then actually be on it with my wife and daughter when I did it?”

“I don’t know anything. All I know is that I have no faith in this goddamn government of ours, not that I had much to begin with.”

“Then it wouldn’t surprise you to learn that someone higher up might have planned all this for a reason, knowing full well that I owned a summer home here.” Cooper looked confused, so Tag pushed the barrel of the rifle away from his chest and stepped forward. “Could you please point that elsewhere?”

Cooper lowered the rifle and stared at him. Tag could just make out his ruddy features. He had a fisherman’s beard that consisted of a thin line of gray hair running down his chin, sans the mustache. He guessed the man’s age to be in the mid to late sixties. Tag was about to sit down when his cell phone rang. The green bar was now well under twenty percent.

“Hey, buddy. Glad to hear that you’re still alive and kicking,” said the voice when he answered.

“Blake,” he said, happy to hear the voice of his good friend and FBI agent.

“I’m calling on a Tracphone and don’t have much time, Tag, so listen good to what I’m saying. I know for certain that you didn’t commit this terrorist act, not that there’s any evidence that would have convinced me otherwise. I’ve known you long enough to know that you could never do such a crime, especially after all the years you’ve devoted to public service.”

“Thanks, Blake, I’m glad
someone
believes me.”

“I believe someone high up in the government is responsible for this. I don’t know who did it or why, but I have no doubt that they may be part of a bigger conspiracy. But that’s not the real reason I’m calling.”

“Oh?”

“You and your family need to find a way off that island as soon as possible. I’m hearing through the grapevine that no one’s coming off that piece of real estate alive, and if they do, they’ll be quarantined in a top-security medical facility for an indefinite amount of time.”